


Night Owls and Other Birds

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, night time rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:22:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: A look at each of the Batboys before they turn in to bed.





	Night Owls and Other Birds

-  
Nightwing stumbles in through his window, closing it hard enough to rattle the glass in the frame. He closes his eyes and tips back, feels the pull of the curtains under his weight. He exhales, slow. And after a minute, he straightens, grabbing some clean clothes from the top drawer.  
  
He can shower tomorrow.   
  
He strips off the top half of his suit, lets it hang at his waist. He yanks on what was once a colourful shirt, washed and worn and washed again until the fabric was faded to dull grey, and walks through into the kitchen, shoulders drooped and head hanging.   
  
It’d been a pretty shit night.  
  
He digs around the kitchen for a clean bowl and can’t find one, winds up pouring cereal and milk into some green plastic tupperware. He fumbles for a spoon in the drawer that is stuck  _again_ , and takes a few steps to collapse onto the living room couch. He decides not to care about the splash of milk on the upholstery.   
  
It’s the kind of night where he’s too  _wired_ , too pissed off and jaded and downright sad to sleep. One of those nights that has him questioning not only his career choice, but also the fate of the human race. So he finds the remote between the couch cushions and flicks on cable, looking for some background noise. (He never did get used to living alone.)  
  
He crunches absently on the cereal, frowns at the pull around his eyes. And he gives an almost-laugh, realising he’d forgotten to take off his domino. He balances his cereal on his knee, spoon in one hand, and rolls the mask off with the other. The glue had mostly worn off, so it only hurt a little.  
  
And Dick flicks around, channel surfing, until he hits the kids channels. He finds that show, the cartoon one he really likes, with those genius-inventor kids or whatever (he catches it sometimes, late-night, but still hasn’t figured out the title), and settles back on the couch.   
  
He turns off his World’s-Greatest-Detective-trained brain and relaxes back onto his old sofa, still Nightwing-suited to the waist. He yawns, a bit, setting the tupperware on the table in front of him.  
  
If he wasn’t so wired, he thinks vaguely. He might be tempted to tip over like  _this_ , and to use that cushion as a pillow like  _so_ , and maybe. Fall asleep…  
  
 —-  
  
Jason slides the two deadbolts and the chain into place on his door. It’s habit, now, a sad attempt at “extra security” when the walls are paper-thin and the windows don’t even close properly. He slides off his jacket and replaces it on the hook, stripping his armoured patrol clothes and leaving them by the door.   
  
He sheds his weapons one by one, routinely checking them for damage before he sets them on the table. They’re all in good nick. It hadn’t been a bad night. But then, Jay prefers the bad nights– the nights he gets angry and stays that way.   
  
Because nights like tonight, he’s left with nothing but sadness.   
  
He returns his weapons to the hidden cache in his bookshelf. Then he strips down to his boxers and pads to the kitchen. He flicks on the stove and starts humming to himself, wishing he’d had the fucking foresight to fix the damn radio.   
  
Jason doesn’t like silence.   
  
He washes his face and hands in the kitchen sink, and then dumps a full can of tomato soup into the saucepan, stirring it absently. He rolls and cracks his shoulders, popping each of his knuckles (bar the finger he’d broken two weeks ago and set wrong, that was still swollen and bruised). And he keeps humming, waits for the soup to heat through.   
  
He winds up eating half of it out of the saucepan, too impatient to wait for it all to heat, and it tastes just the same as it did when he was seven years old, giving his poor mom a heart attack when he burned himself making some.   
  
He sits down with the rest, a small bowlful, a slice of stale bread and butter, and gives a small laugh. Remembering being 14 years old and sicker than he’d been in his life, requesting canned tomato soup. Alfred had been surprised, a little insulted, but had dutifully bought him some tomato soup and cream.   
He’d cried then, a little, pressed into Bruce’s side, sick and sore and missing his mother more than anything.  
  
Jason rubs a hand over his face, feeling suddenly bitter. He finishes up the last of the soup, rinsing the dishes in the sink. He washes the saucepan and puts it back on the stove.  
  
Then, still feeling lonely, a little out of place, he goes to his bedroom.  
  
First, he digs in his jeans pocket for his wallet, pulls out the battered picture of his mom. Then he gets in bed, tilting the picture toward the window to catch the light. He sets it carefully on the nightstand, in its usual place. He rummages, then, underneath the Glock he keeps in the drawer, and digs out the photo of him, Bruce, and Alfred.   
  
Like every night, he looks at it for a few minutes, eyes tracing the twin smiles on his and Bruce’s faces, the amusement so clear in Alfred’s. And then he shuts it back in the drawer safely.  
  
Jason draws up the covers, closes his eyes and tries to sleep.  
  
—  
  
Red Robin sits at his computer console. Fully costumed, he flies through a number of files, updating where necessary, and skimming them for anything that might be relevant to his cases.   
  
He’s looking for a connection.  
  
It’s a little after 4, according to the neon-green readout, but he’s determined, as always, to work. He types furiously, flicking between files, somehow keeping track of them all at once.   
  
After this one, he tells himself for the eleventh file in a row. After this one I’ll head upstairs.  
  
And he keeps typing.  
  
Eventually, he slides the cowl off, ruffling his hair where it’s flattened to his head. He also yanks off the gauntlets, setting them aside. Then he rubs his eyes, tipping forward to lean on his elbows. His eyelids droop, and he slides forward in the chair, slipping. Startling himself into wakefulness.  
  
He keeps typing.  
  
He winds up stalled over a sentence for the sixth time in a row, stares blankly, open-mouthed at his screen for a good two minutes. He doesn’t notice he’s dozing until his own light snore wakes him up.   
  
Tim keeps typing.  
  
It isn’t until he’s fallen asleep at his computer for the third time that he locks down the files and starts to strip the rest of the costume, methodical and a little clumsy with sleep. He heads up to the apartment proper, still wearing the tights and tunic of his suit.   
  
He heads to the bathroom, turning on the shower before he starts to strip.   
  
He waits until the water’s warm before he moves to stand under the spray, letting the hot water and steam ease the aches and pains from his patrol. He tips his head back, slicks his hair off his forehead and gets to work, shampooing his hair. Then he rubs himself down with some plain-smelling soap, and starts to scrub around his mouth and chin. (Switching to the cowl had shortened his post-patrol showers significantly– the ratio of exposed skin to not was barely comparable.)  
  
And once he’s sure he’s clean, Tim turns off the taps, huddles under one of his oversized, fluffy towels, and brushes his teeth.  
  
In his room, he puts on a clean pair of briefs, an old shirt he thinks he maybe stole from Dick, and a pair of Batman-themed pyjama pants. He double-checks his alarm. Then he climbs into bed and closes his eyes, thinking.  
  
Laughs, tonight, he thinks.   
And first it’s his dad and Dana. He pictures them, very carefully (she in her favourite blue sweater, him in his brown cable-knit), and their expressions. The sounds of his dad’s surprised bark, Dana’s infectious, fond laughter.  
Then he moves on to the rest of his family. Alphabetically, he decides makes the most sense. So then it’s Alfred and his not-quite laughs, and Bart with his too-loud snickers. Then Bruce, the way he chuckles sometimes and  _means_  it, but how it always takes him by surprise. Cass, the way a smile is her laugh, and the way Damian will sometimes give what is undeniably the cackle of a child (when he’s not being too cruel with it). Next is Dick and all of his types of laughter, the way his eyes will crinkle up and a grin will split his face. Jason, when he laughs without cruelty– a deep, melodious sound, the way the smile on his face makes him look so much younger, takes the bitterness away. Kon’s booming laughter, and his cocky snigger. Steph’s nervous giggle, her boyish laugh, and the way she sometimes snorts when she finds things especially funny.   
  
By the end Tim’s near half-asleep, a tired smile over his face.   
  
He rolls over, temporarily at peace, and falls asleep.  
  
–  
  
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Father calls out, without turning around.  
  
And Damian straightens, a guilty start. Says, “Good evening, Father.”  
  
Father, facing the computer, cowl and cape pooled over the back of the chair, says, “Damian.”  
  
He fidgets with a pyjama sleeve. Rubs absently at the smudge of graylead on the side of his hand. “I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
The man glances back, frowning. “It’s your night off, Damian. You know the rules.”  
  
“I. Wondered how patrol went,” Damian says, after a moment. Already defensive. A tendril of icy air slips under his collar and he shivers. It gets cold down here.  
  
There is a long silence, broken only by the sound of typing. And when Father does eventually speak, Damian jumps, surprised. “It was fine, Damian.”  
  
And he creeps, a little closer over the Cave floor. His school shoes are too big without socks, his feet slipping around inside them. He moves closer to the pool of light where his father sits.  
  
And he says, “Go to bed.”  
  
Damian feels a corner of his mouth turn down at one side. He turns around, wordless, and starts to head back upstairs.   
  
“Goodnight, Damian,” his father says, from behind him, and Damian says nothing, continuing up the stairs.  
  
He wishes Grayson were here.  
  
He’s back in the study when he runs into Pennyworth, quite literally. And the drink he carries on a tray doesn’t spill through some form of stupid butler-magic.  
  
“Hello, Master Damian,” the man says warmly. Damian fights the urge to scowl. “I wondered if you might meet me in the kitchen, young sir? I am just carrying this down to Master Bruce. I would advise you, he is rather short-tempered this evening.”  
  
And Damian stares at him for a full minute, eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then he says, “Tt. Very well.”  
  
“I shouldn’t be a moment, young master,” Pennyworth tells him, and heads down into the Cave.  
  
Father wouldn’t tell  _him_  to go to bed, Damian bets.  
  
And he skulks to the kitchen, a pout heavy on his face. He sits on a stool at the kitchen counter, shoes half-hanging off his feet. He lets them fall to the tile, leans on his elbows on the counter. Looks down at Titus, his giant form heaving with snores.  
  
Nights like these, he hates it here.  
  
Pennyworth returns in soon enough, bustling around the kitchen. Eventually, he settles a glass of milk on the counter ahead of Damian.   
  
“Do you mind if I–?” Pennyworth says, and Damian nods curtly.  
  
The man sits with a cup of tea. And Damian starts to drink the warm milk.   
  
Pennyworth sits beside him for a long time, and the silence is… oddly comfortable. Pennyworth expects nothing of him.  
  
“You are very like your father,” Pennyworth offers, eventually. And before Damian can flinch away from those words, Pennyworth continues thoughtfully, “He may seem cold, but I can assure you, he is just terrible at expressing himself.”  
  
Damian says, “You need not  _pacify_  me, Pennyworth.”   
  
The man says, “Believe it or not, Master Damian, you are not the first little Robin I have sat up with of an evening.”  
  
He feels himself colour, says, “Tt” and stares at the opposite end of the kitchen.   
  
And Pennyworth says, contemplatively, “It would seem Master Bruce still has yet to grasp some of the hardships associated with being so young and, ah, in the business.”  
  
Damian’s hand tightens on the glass, and he says nothing.  
  
“In my experience,” Pennyworth says. “It is…  _difficult_  for a Robin to adjust to a normal sleep schedule, even on his nights off.” He sips at his tea, says fondly, “Master Richard used to harass myself and Master Bruce at all hours of the night.”  
  
There is a beat of silence.  
  
Then, mournfully, “I am afraid he hasn’t changed much.”  
  
Damian gives a small snort of laughter, surprising even himself.   
  
Silence falls again.  
  
And he doesn’t even notice his eyelids are drooping until Pennyworth says, “It’s getting rather late, Master Damian. If you require nothing else from me, I might head up to bed–?”  
  
And Damian opens his eyes with a start, says, “Very well, Pennyworth. I suppose now is as good a time as any.”  
  
He slides off the stool and back into his shoes, starts to trudge up the stairs. Bidding the butler an absent goodnight.  
  
He tuts, annoyed as the stupid, oversized beast follows him up to his bedroom. But he fights down a smile when Titus noses his hand. “You idiot mutt,” Damian murmurs, petting his head.   
  
He shuts and locks the door, then does his usual nightly check. Under the bed, between the covers, under the pillows, in his cupboards and drawers and closet, behind the curtains. He double checks the lock on the door. (They haven’t tested him here yet, his training, but they could be lulling him into a false sense of security, waiting for him to slip. Just like the night he turned six.)  
  
And once he’s sure his room is no different to before, he slides into bed, absently resting his hand on Titus’ head.

He lets his eyelids droop.

“Goodnight, Titus.”

  
**-END-**

**Author's Note:**

> Also available on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/24254246184/night-owls-and-other-birds)


End file.
